


By Fate or by Design

by ProseApothecary



Category: Notting Hill (1999), Schitt's Creek
Genre: Crossover, F/F, M/M, meet-cutes and angst and pining and fluff and all that Notting Hill stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: As Alexis would say: Patrick's an open book. David's a little cray-cray if you spill coffee on his look.





	1. Chapter 1

Patrick tries to discreetly glance at the man perusing the craft book section, aware that he’s probably staring. Patrick wasn’t exactly au fait with the world of fashion design, but anyone could recognise David Rose’s signature black and white ensemble.

David walks over to the register.

“Just this, thanks,” he says, placing a copy of _Grandma Esther_ _’s Guide to Sewing_ on the counter.

Patrick swallows a laugh. Evidently David wasn’t buying for himself. Still, he could have some fun with this.

“If you’re new to textiles you might want to start with her beginner’s guide,” he says. “Esther doesn’t play around.”

David cocks an eyebrow, apparently attempting to work out whether Patrick is taking the piss. Patrick’s sincere face seems to convince him otherwise.

Patrick waits for an indignant “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Instead, he says “Maybe the beginner’s guide would be good. Not for me.” he hurries to add. “I have a niece who wants lessons. And I figure if I give her a book instead…no more having to mentor a small breakable human in how to use sharp pointy objects.”

“Mm. I’m sure just giving her a sewing kit and zero supervision will be a lot safer.”

“Oh, it will be.” says David. “You haven’t seen me babysit.”

Patrick grins at him, moving from behind the counter to get the beginner’s guide. He hands it over, regretting his ruse a little. Now he has no way to get an autograph, or any way of proving to his friends, or himself, that the encounter actually happened.

“Thanks,” says David, handing over the money and heading to the door.

Patrick finds himself wanting to extend the conversation, just a little.

“Bumbags are only a pound extra with any purchase,” he says, holding up the design he thinks is most likely to offend David’s sensibilities.

David looks slightly pained at the sight. “I’m good. Really.” He closes the door behind him.

And Patrick finds himself replaying their conversation, smiling to himself.

 

Twyla returns soon after, handing over a coffee to Patrick and chugging the other.

“Guess who came in to the store-” Patrick starts.

Twyla’s eyes widen. “Mark Ruffalo?”

Patrick’s face falls slightly. “No.”

“Oh I know this!” Twyla interrupts. “Daniel Radcliffe?”

“Ok, right country this time, but no. You know, when I said ‘guess’, I didn’t actually mean-”

“Ohh,” says Twyla with an air of certainty. “Bruce Banner.”

Patrick reconsiders whether she’s the best confidante.

Luckily, she’s distracted from the conversation by her empty coffee cup, giving Patrick a good excuse to head back to the café for another one.

 

Leaving the café, coffee in hand, Patrick suddenly has a vivid mental image of Twyla telling customers about the array of celebrities that have hypothetically visited the store.

In his rush to get back, he manages to bump straight into none other than David. He watches in horror as coffee blooms over his jumper.

David pulls at it, trying to keep it from bleeding onto the shirt below. “Oh _God_.”

“I’m really sorry,” says Patrick, “I know your public image is important, but my apartment is right down the block, so if you wanna wash up-”

David narrows his eyes.

“So you do know who I am?”

Patrick looks sheepish. “You have a pretty distinctive look.”

“Yeah,” says David, looking down at his jumper, “especially now.” He sighs. “Where is this apartment?”

 

David tries to get the coffee stain out of his shirt and jumper while Patrick ponders the fact that no one will ever believe there was a shirtless David Rose in his bathroom.

“I don’t think it’s coming out,” says David resignedly.

“I’m really sorry,” says Patrick, again.

“It’s ok,” says David, “designer clothes are not that expensive when you designed them.”

“Huh. Maybe next time you can design them stain-proof?”

David frowns. “Anyway. I have a gala tonight, so I am going to need to borrow some clothes. If that’s ok.”

“Go for it,” says Patrick, sliding open his closet door. “If you need to cut some of them up to make them fashion, I totally understand.”

David’s frown grows deeper. “Ok, well there is a _little_ more to my job but I’ll uh, keep that in mind.”

David, thankfully, does not ask for Patrick’s opinion on any of the dozens of shirts he tries on. But even Patrick can see that none of them really suit him. For one thing, the fit is a lot more snug than his usual fare. Not that Patrick’s complaining.

“Any drop-crotch pants?” David asks.

Patrick looks at him blankly.

“Ok. Didn’t think so.”

Eventually, he settles on jeans, a white shirt and black blazer. Patrick suspects it has more to do with them being the only greyscale items of clothing he owns than anything else.

“If they ask you who you’re wearing at this event, are you going to say Patrick Brewer, or…?”

David looks down at his outfit then pityingly at Patrick. “They’re not going to ask who I’m wearing.”

 

David, it turns out, is dead wrong. But he dutifully answers, “Patrick Brewer,” leaving the interviewer scratching her head and Patrick, gleefully grinning at the TV.


	2. Chapter 2

David shows up a couple of days later, shirt and blazer in hand.

“Thank you,” he says, handing them over.

“…What’s the usual commission for styling a client?” Patrick asks, fully expecting an eyeroll in return.

Instead, he gets a small, fledgling smile. “I could buy you dinner. Would that cover it?”

Patrick’s shock must come across, because David squirms and adds “as a thank you. Because Abby loved her sewing kit. And The Sun said that your outfit was ‘not the most boring thing a man has worn to an awards show’, which is sort of a compliment-”

“I’d love to have dinner,” says Patrick.

And the smile is back, just like that.

“Tonight?”

“Um. There’s sort of a friend’s party, tonight. But that’s ok. I can cancel. She’d be fine with it, really, if I told her the reason.”

“Can I come?”

“You…want to come to my friend’s birthday party?”

“Sure. If it’s ok with you. And her, obviously.”

“Uh, it’s fine with me. And it’s going to be….totally fine with her.”

 

“David, this is Rachel.”

Rachel whimpers slightly and stumbles backwards into the counter.

David looks alarmed.

“I think you’re beautiful. I mean, I think your work is beautiful. Not that you’re not beautiful. I mean, you know you’re beautiful, models probably sleep with you all the time. Oh God, that sounds like I’m suggesting you lack integrity. Not that sex is untoward, obviously, I just mean…I’m sure it’s a very professional working environment. Maybe you’ve never even slept with a model. Although I did hear something about you and Gisele Bündchen, obviously none of my business but maybe, down the line, if we’ve grown closer you could just…let me in on that?”

“It was actually Gisele Bündchen’s stunt double.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Sometimes we need replacement ambi-turners. But we broke up six months ago.”

Rachel holds a hand to her heart and gasps. “Oh no. I always thought you and Gisele were cute. Which means you and Gisele 2.0 must have been almost as cute.”

Patrick gives her a look.

“I mean, good for you and Patrick, obviously. Right. Good riddance Gisele 2.0. Oh God, you and Patrick. I can’t believe my friend might get married to David Rose.”

“Oh look, canapes,” says Patrick, dragging David over to the other side of the room.

A woman in flannel and denim grabs the platter of snacks before they can get there. “Nice try Patrick. But this time the last Toblerone is crossing my lips and mine alone.”

Patrick turns to David. “I promise my friends are normal. Usually.  David, Stevie. Stevie, David.”

Stevie looks him up and down. “…Who are you?”

“Um. David?”

“No, I mean, why is your presence enough to make Rachel reorganise every piece of décor in this house?”

David turns to see Rachel balancing a miniature giraffe on a futon.

“Oh. I’m a fashion designer.”

“Did you have anything to do with making fake pockets trendy?”

“Um. No.”

“Great. Then we can have a civil conversation.”

“Fantastic,” says David dryly, “I was really hoping to impress you.”

Stevie smiles. “I like him.”

“Where’s Twyla?” Patrick asks.

“Cooking.”

Patrick looks concerned.

“Bad cook?” asks David.

“She’s not bad. Just creative.”

“Right.” says Stevie. “She always achieves the result she wants. Whether anyone else wants it is a different matter.”

“I’ve been to Heston Blumenthal’s secret food fights,” says David, “I think I’ll manage it.”

 

“We have carrot cake. We have zucchini cake. Why don’t we have cabbage cake?”

Stevie raises her hand to answer.

“Trick question,” says Twyla holding up a tray proudly, “now we do. And the best part is, it’s dinner and dessert all in one.”

Forced murmurs of appreciation come from the guests.

They all manage to get a slice down. Twyla looks at the final piece.

“Ok, let’s play a game my mother invented. It’s called ‘Happy Kids get Cake’. Last slice goes to whoever can tell the most inspirational and aspirational story about their year.”

“Well I just got fired,” says Stevie, “so I’m out. And Patrick’s out too, obviously.”

“Obviously?” asks Patrick.

“You took your new boyfriend to your fanatic ex-girlfriend’s birthday party.”

David raises an eyebrow. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“Very ex.” says Patrick.

“Exactly.” says Rachel. “Pretty sure my longest relationship having been with a gay guy ten years ago loses me points in this game. Even if I’m with someone who makes me _very_ happy now.”

Stevie makes a face. “Ew.”

“Ok,” says Rachel, “can you not say ‘ew’ in reference to our own relationship, please?”

“Reflex action. Plus, you make us sound gross.”

Rachel gets a glint in her eye. “I’m so sorry Snookums. You know I never want to do anything to disappoint my honey-bunny.”

Stevie makes retching noises.

“My sweetpea. My pumpkin pie. Honey Bunches of Oats. Angel-hair pasta.”

“Ok,” says Stevie, “now you’re just hungry.”

“So hungry,” whispers Rachel, looking mournfully at her plate.

David watches Stevie sneak a chocolate bar from her pocket to Rachel as Twyla stands up to speak.

“Well I think I have you all beat. Dad’s been in _way_ fewer prison riots this year. Patrick said that if the bookstore doesn’t go bust he’s going to give me a title-based promotion. And the other night I went on a date with a guy who works in an _office_.”

There’s a pause.

“Ok,” says Stevie, “I think we can all agree that David wins?”

“What?” says David indignantly. “I mean as much as I would love that slice, there’s no way I can take it in good conscience.”

“Really?” asks Stevie. “How many prison riots was _your_ dad in this year?”

David thinks. “He did get put in a cruise ship’s brig for getting shirty with a sommelier.”

“Not helping your case.”

“Ok. Well. My parents have forgotten my birthday so many years running that I’m pretty sure at this point they still think I’m 22. They are the _only_ people who think this. In fact, just yesterday I read an article saying I was plastic surgery addict who was secretly 60. Which is about 30 years off the mark, by the way. I’ve dated two people who ended up proposing to my sister, and one man who paid my mother to yell at him in-character. I have two social circles: people who get wasted at celebrity parties, and scary fanatics.”

He pauses. “Not that you guys are scary fanatics.”

 “Oh no no, we definitely are. Continue,” says Rachel, mouth half-full of chocolate.

“Right, well. It’s kinda hard to form a meaningful connection when most of your social events involve watching people try to snort coke off a bearskin rug or getting asked to sign people’s babies. I don’t even know if my work is good, or if it’s just because of who my family is, or the self-aggregating nature of fame, or because people will buy anything if it’s expensive enough. Maybe in a year trends will change and I’ll lose my knack. And I’ll be unemployed, and my work will be worthless.”

There’s a pause and David bites his lip.

“Nope,” says Stevie, “not buying it. If I had enough money, I would _choose_ to forgo life purpose and human connection.”

David smiles. “Apart from your honey bun, right? Or chocolate bar…?”

Stevie starts to speak, looking murderous, and Rachel clamps a hand over her mouth.

“If you’re going to insult my life idol, please keep in mind that I’m a nurse. I know where the morgue is.” She pauses and adds “Pumpkin,” as an afterthought, cautiously removing her hand.

Stevie rolls her eyes. “All I was going to say, is that David deserves the slice. I mean, I know _I_ find his journey inspiring.”

Twyla gives him a little clap and hands it over.

 

David asks Patrick to carry the cake home for him. By the time they reach David’s apartment building and he’s still holding the slice, he’s pretty sure he’s going to be the one taking it home.

“So,” says David. “Do you miss Rachel? I like to get all the red flags upfront.”

Patrick thinks for a moment. “I miss her Insta-mixer. Does that count?”

“That’s actually lucky.”

Patrick gives him a questioning look.

David puts his hands on Patrick’s shoulders.

“I know you’re a simple country boy-“

“30-year-old who lives _and_ works in London, but continue.”

“-and I don’t want to shock you with tales of celebrity grandeur and excess. But I currently own two Insta-mixers.”

“Well now we _have_ to go on a second date.”

David tilts his head. “I don’t know. I mean if you were planning on using me for my looks or my money, that’d be one thing, but kitchen appliances are a new low for me.”

Patrick looks up at him seriously. “David. I promise that I will use your Insta-mixers for your benefit. By making you cabbage cake.”

“In that case,” David says, suppressing a smile as he turns tail, “bye forever!”

Patrick grabs his arm and pulls him back into a kiss, lightly enough that David could lean back and lose contact.

Instead, David pulls him in with his other arm.

Close enough that the cabbage cake gets crushed against David’s side.

David looks down at his crumbed coat. “This is becoming a habit with you.”

“Oh no, I’m not taking the blame for this one. This is on you and your handsiness.”

“ _Handsiness?_  " David asks, indignation growing with every syllable. “I’m tempted to threaten to leave again, but I wouldn’t want you to pour your waterbottle onto my Levis.”

Patrick grins at him, moving his hands under the thick woollen collar of David’s coat.

David visibly softens. “I had fun tonight,” he admits. “And I’ve been to all of Dolly Parton’s birthday parties, so I don’t say that lightly.”

“Me too. The having fun part. Not the Dolly Parton thing, although I live in hope.”

“First you want the Insta-mixers, now an invite to a Parton Party. This is some very specific gold-digging.”

 “I’m a man with very specific tastes.”

“Ok, well Dolly keeps that guest list locked down. And one of the Insta-mixers may be broken.”

“In that case, I _would_ be willing to settle for a second date.”

David pulls him into another kiss, lighter and sweeter this time.

“Second date it is. I’ll call you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be the only person shipping Rachel and Stevie but consider:
> 
> a) They would make a great Princess Bubblegum/Marceline cosplay.  
> b) Short people gotta stick together.


	3. Chapter 3

A second date turns into a third, a third turns into a fourth, and it’s not long before David’s inviting Patrick to his apartment for romcom marathons. Alphabetically, they’re up to Meg Ryan, and David’s instructed him that he needs to turn up around four if they want to fit them all in.

Patrick walks up the corridor, only to see a line of people shuffle into David’s apartment.

He freezes. He wonders if not being an orgy kind of person was something he should’ve specified on the first date.

Or maybe it’s just a dinner, some plans David had forgotten about before he’d talked to Patrick. He goes in cautiously, deciding he might as well check in.

A man standing looks down at his clipboard. “You must be from Grazia. Name?”

“Patrick Brewer but…what?”

“Just go through to the living room. He won’t be long.”

Patrick, feeling slightly dazed, goes through to the living room and sits down.

He looks to the man next to him. “Um. What is everyone doing here?”

The man snorts. “Tell me about it. All this for a new fashion line.”

A wave of realisation hits Patrick. He stands up to leave, just as the woman standing outside David’s bedroom motions him inside.

Well then. He should check in with David anyway.

David’s eyes widen as he walks in. “I figured this would be over by now.” he offers as way of explanation. “How did you-”

“This is Patrick Brewer from Grazia,” a neatly-dressed woman in the corner of the room interrupts.

“From…From Grazia?”

Patrick opens his mouth to explain, but isn’t quite sure where to start.

The woman misinterprets his silence. “Please, take a seat.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “Anything you want to know about the new line, just...shoot. I'm sure your questions are excellent."

“Yes,” says David dubiously, “I’m sure they are.”

Oh, he could play this game.

“Does your new line have pockets? I hear that’s very important.”

“Well, it’s underwear. So no.”

“Did you want to…record this? Or take notes?” says the endlessly patient woman in the corner of the room.

“You really should,” says David. “I’m sure this interview is going to be historic.”

“Right,” says Patrick, clicking record on his phone and pondering his extent of fashion knowledge.

“Uh. Is it…warm?”

“Again, underwear.”

“Not thermals then?”

David covers his mouth. “Not thermals.”

Patrick aims for a little more than a peek-a-boo smile. “Maybe you should consider thermal underwear. Not a lot of competition from other designers in that market.”

David’s smile edges beyond the cover of his hand.

“Genius. I’d _love_ to offer you an internship.”

The woman in the corner of the room looks like she’s given up on comprehending the scene unfolding.

Patrick tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t work for free.”

“Let’s have dinner. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“How does the Cassidy sound?’

“Seven o’clock?”

“Perfect,” says Patrick, standing up to leave. “See you there.”

 

David doesn’t show up. Not at seven, not at eight. He texts and gets no response. He goes home, feeling the worry surge in his stomach.

Life goes on around him. Stevie and Rachel move in together, sending Patrick lots of pictures of them posed around their Insta-mixer. Twyla starts flirting more and more with the barista and remembering to actually buy Patrick coffee less and less. Very occasionally, someone buys a book from the store. But Patrick’s stuck in the middle of it all, waiting for David.

 

And somehow, still utterly unprepared for him to turn up.

“Um. Hi.”

“Hi,” says David, looking at the floor. “Can I come in?”

“Oh. Of course,” he says, stepping back to let David in. “...Tea?”

 

David sips his tea, looking anywhere but at Patrick.

“I meant to call. But then everything that happened…happened.”

“…What happened?”

“Right. You might be the one person in this town who doesn’t read gossip mags. Well, thanks to a shady business manager, my family’s broke. And I can help them out with some of my funds, but every time I leave my apartment, I have to push my way through a crowd that wants an exclusive on “my criminal family”. And it’s just. A lot.” His expression shifts. “But that’s not your problem, obviously.” He stands up. “I should go-”

“Stay,” says Patrick. “Stay as long as you want.”


	4. Chapter 4

David stays, and it feels like he was always there.

“Trenches are on trend. What do you think of this?” asks David, passing a sketch across the couch to Patrick.

“Well, obviously it can’t compare to _this_ ,” Patrick says, motioning to David’s Snuggie.

“I just want to reiterate that if you ever tell anyone that I wore this, I will hire someone to murder you in your sleep.”

“Noted. It looks good, David. Really good.”

“…the Snuggie?”

“The trench. Both. Blue suits you.”

David flushes and changes the subject. “I don’t even know why I’m still sketching. The Rose name isn’t exactly prestigious anymore.”

“You said you didn’t know whether it was your work or your name that made you a success. Now you’ll know.”

“Mm. I’m sure that’ll be a huge comfort when I’m destitute on the streets.”

“Or when you’ve rebuilt your empire and you’re on your triannual Bahamas vacation.”

David smiles even as he rolls his eyes at Patrick.

 

Patrick offers David the bed, mainly because he thinks the shock of sleeping on a sofa could kill him. Patrick doesn’t mind sleeping in the living room. He tells himself that repeatedly, as Roland loudly chews on crisps in the armchair opposite.

“Between you and me, I think David has a little more on his mind than Angora sweaters.”

“You think? Possibly the unravelling of his family’s lives?”

“I think maybe his interest’s moved towards jeans, _if_ you get my drift.”

“I’m really trying not to.”

Roland offers Patrick a chip which he declines. “All I’m saying, is that it seems like you two like each other. And maybe you should just go for it. If you ever wanna sleep in your own bed again, that is.”

“I’m not going to throw myself at someone who’s just looking for a safe place to stay. It’d be unethical.”

Roland looks at him blankly.

“…Ethics is a system of morality which-”

“Ugh, I know what ethics is. Everyone’s failed an Intro to Philosophy class, Patrick.”

“Ok. Goodnight, Roland,” says Patrick, closing his eyes and turning his face to the pillow.

 

He wakes up a couple of hours later, to the sound of stairs creaking.

Patrick groans. “ _Please_ , just go to sleep.”

“Oh.” comes David’s voice, soft but unmistakeable, “Ok.”

Patrick sits straight up. “Not you, obviously. I, um, thought you were Roland.”

David rounds the corner, arms crossed as his face goes through an interesting array of expressions. “Not long ago, I thought ‘everyone thinks you’re a family of conmen’, was the most humiliating sentence one could hear. But no, you came up with a whole new lowest moment to add to my memoirs.”

Patrick smiles, struck with the confusing sensation that Roland, for once, may actually be right. “I’m going to make it into your memoirs?”

“Footnotes.” says David, “Like, one line about how your nightshirt inspired me to help the ensemble-challenged.”

Patrick gets up off the couch and slowly walks over to David. “Plus the humiliation of being mistaken for Roland. So that’s two lines, at least.”

David takes a tiny step forward and almost stumbles. It _should_ be embarrassing, but Patrick brings his hands to David’s sides to steady him, and just _leaves_ them there and David’s pretty sure he’s lost the ability to process thought.

David’s newly-blank brain tries to remember what they were talking about, so they can get out of this freeze-frame and he can breathe out.

“Right. The Roland trauma…thing,” he manages.

Patrick tilts his head and smiles his infuriating smile. He has that look, the one that makes David feel torn, wants and needs bursting out the seams like wool. So soft inside, so bad at hiding it. He wants to kiss it away, he thinks, bringing a hand to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick’s eyelids flutter and David can see him arching upwards towards David, almost on tiptoes.

David laughs. Maybe he wasn’t the only transparent one.

The dazed look is wiped off Patrick’s face. Before he can say something indignant,  David leans down and kisses him, quick and messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roland and Spike must be related, right?


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick wakes up with David curled into him. He watches his nightshirt hang on the blade of the slowly-rotating fan.

“Still your lowest moment?” he asks, when David wakes up.

David nuzzles into Patrick’s shoulder to hide a smile. “Sex on a sofa bed? Most definitely.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you sleep with two people who are now on an MI5 watchlist?”

“What’s your point?”

 

Roland chooses that moment to come downstairs.

David blanches and pulls their blanket up to his chin.

“Looks like someone got their act together. What happened to him being a delicate flower, huh?”

David pulls his head back to look at Patrick.

“Ok,” says Patrick, “flowers were never mentioned.”

Roland makes his way to the adjacent kitchen and starts chopping fruit.

“Anyone else for bananas flambé?” 

“No,” says Patrick, “remember last time?”

Roland touches his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Maybe just fried bananas, then.”

David’s patience extends five minutes into the fry-up, before he lets out an exasperated groan against Patrick’s shoulder.

“I think they’re done, Roland,” says Patrick. “I smell burning.”

Roland scoffs. “And I thought you were a good cook. These babies still need to caramelise.”

“Oh my _God_.”  says David.

Roland holds up his hands. “Nigella’s rules, not mine.”

“Well maybe we can use this time to discuss finances,” says Patrick. “I don’t know how well this 60-40 rent thing is going.”

“I’d love to pal,” says Roland, scraping bananas from the bottom of the pan into his bowl, “but a man’s gotta eat.” And with that, he takes his bowl upstairs.

David stares at Patrick. “Have you been devious this whole time?”

“Maybe,” says Patrick. “Is it working for you?”

“It’s not _not_ working for me.”

David pulls on his clothes and goes over to the kitchen. “He didn’t even leave us any.”

“You don’t want Roland’s burnt banana, trust me.”

David winces.

“Sorry. Heard it soon as I said it. I’ll make us some crumpets.”

Patrick slips on his pants and looks wistfully up at his nightshirt.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” says David.

“Honestly, I can just get a chair and get it down-”

“I mean, physically, you can, but morally? Can you?”

“Morally, can I disregard all food safety regulations, and cook shirtless?”

“I’m willing to let you take that risk.”

Patrick grins. “Just give me five minutes. I need to find an inoffensive shirt.”

“You’re gonna need longer than five minutes,” David says as Patrick heads upstairs.

 

David’s rooting through the pantry for pre-breakfast snacks when the doorbell rings.

“Patrick?” he yells. “I can’t handle people before eleven.”

Getting no response, he sighs and opens the door.

The buzz of camera shutters fills the air.

Patrick comes down the stairs, shirt in hand and the targets switch.

David slams the door shut, taking a second to breathe before texting his driver.

He turns to see Patrick. “Did you do this?”

“Are you kidding? Of course not.”

“You sure? Because it seems like they picked the perfect moment.”

“David. I wouldn’t.”

“Roland, then.”

“He’s not a paragon of virtue, but I don’t think he’d do _this_.”

“Well I don’t know how else this would’ve _happened_ , Patrick.”

He heads upstairs as Patrick follows.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing,” says David, throwing things in his bag.

“David. This isn’t going to be news forever. People will lose interest.”

“Maybe they will. And then I’ll get to watch as newspapers dig it up all over again.”

He checks his phone. “My cab’s here,” he says, and pushes past Patrick without another word.


	6. Chapter 6

Patrick thinks he should be used to absences at this point. But he still expects to see David sketching in the alcove, smiling as Patrick brings him tea. David, asking infinite questions about the paintings on the wall that Patrick can’t answer. David, napping on the couch with a book perched on his chest.

 

His friends try to help. Rachel calls one day while he’s laying on the couch, wondering what exactly to do.

“Hello?” he says, wincing as a loud rattle comes from her side.

“Sorry!” she yells, “you caught me in the middle of Insta-mixing.”

“…You called me.”

“I know. Me and Stevie are making spiked strawberry milkshakes,”

“Hi Patrick,” he hears Stevie slur.

“Sounds very fun. Did you call for a reason, or?”

“I found David’s apartment number,” Rachel says.

“Because she’s a dedicated stalker,” says Stevie with a hint of pride.

“Ok,” says Patrick, “you know that I’m not going to just…turn up at his apartment? If he wanted to patch things up, he would’ve come here.”

“Right,” says Rachel. “But in case you do, it’s number 612.”

 “I know. I’ve _been_ to his place, Rachel.”

“You’ve _been_ to his place? And you didn’t tell me? What’s it like? Are there any hints that he’s one of those celebrities in the Illuminati?”

“Ooh,” says Stevie. “Or Scientology? Honestly Patrick, maybe it’s good that you didn’t date a Scientologist.”

“Ok, I’m gonna hang up now.”

Patrick lies back on the couch, missing David’s apartment. Missing David.

 

He’s back at the bookshop the next day. Sales may not be great, but at least it keeps him busy.

He’s focussing on inventory when a copy of _Grandma Esther_ _’s Guide to Sewing_ gets plonked down in front of him.

“I’d like to return this. My niece used the fabric scissors to ravage the prototypes for my new collection. Luckily everyone thought it was couture, but _still_.”

Patrick knows that voice. He takes a moment to collect himself before he looks up to see David, smiling tentatively.

“Told you you’d find your way back to success.”

David smiles. “We’re not at Bahamas trips yet.”

“Still. According to Rachel, who _is_ the expert on this kind of thing, the Spring collection is your best yet.”

“Well you can tell her she’s the inspiration.”

“Wow. Really?”

“No.”

Patrick laughs.

David watches him, smiling even as he worries his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. For leaving like I did. I was angry at the wrong person.”

“It’s ok. I don’t think either of us reacted the right way.”

“I brought an apology appliance,” he says, as he lugs an Insta-mixer from his bag onto the counter.

Patrick grins. “A second-hand book _and_ an appliance? What a sweet gesture.”

“It’s certainly a heavy gesture.”

“Thank you,” says Patrick earnestly, “I’m going to send you lots of videos of me using this. Just, hours of footage.”

David shakes his head. “Super not necessary.” There’s an awkward pause and he skates his fingers over the counter.

“I was thinking maybe, if you wanted, we could try this again. From the beginning. Or preferably from like, two weeks in.”

“Two weeks in my bed _and_ my sofa started smelling like expensive cologne.”

The edge of David’s mouth tilts up. “It’s Light Blue. And you’re welcome.”

“Whereas if we start from the beginning, you’d be buying another book, right?”

“God, you _are_ desperate for sales.”

Patrick waits expectantly.

David rolls his eyes. “I need a book for my niece’s birthday,” he says, grabbing a book off the closest shelf and putting it on the counter.

“…Wuthering Heights?”

“She’s five now. She can handle some harsh truths about humanity.”

“Ok, well, it’s gonna cost you.”

David leans against the counter. “What’s it gonna cost me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patrick: "David, you have to stop watching Notting Hill. It's not helpful for our relationship."  
> Me: This is a personal attack on everything I stand for.


	7. Chapter 7

Twyla’s Monday was going very well. Patrick had sent her out to get coffees and she’d had an illuminating conversation about unexpectedly cute animals with the barista, resulting in a latte art badger in her cup. She went back to the store with a skip in her step. The last week had been all about Patrick’s romantic woes, but today was going to be all about Twyla’s love-

“Oh!” she takes a moment to recover admirably as David and Patrick detangle themselves and step away from the wall.

“I was just surprised, because there’s three people and I only bought two coffees, so now there aren’t enough coffees. Here, take my coffee,” she says, shoving it at David.

David backs away. “You don’t need to give me your coffee.”

“It looks like you’ll need the energy,” she says earnestly.

David makes a face before giving in and taking the cup. “…Why is there a picture of a skunk on this?”

“It’s a badger,” she says proudly.

David stares at her for a second before handing back the cup. “Maybe you should have it.”

She looks between David and Patrick. “Should I go? I can go get more coffees. Without badgers.”

“No, that’s ok Twyla,” says Patrick as David says “Yes.”

“…That’s ok, Twyla,” amends David. “I should probably get going anyway.”

“Don’t go!” blurts out Twyla. “Patrick’s so sulky when you’re not there.”

“That sounds serious,” David says. “Should I stay, maybe?”

Patrick shoots him a look. “Go.”

“Are you going to survive the afternoon?”

“Well now I have an Insta-mixer to get me through, so…”

“That’s true.” David gives a parting look to the appliance. “Take care of her for me.”

He leans forward and presses another kiss to Patrick’s lips, a firm promise. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Right, I have an appointment to spill coffee on your sweater.”

“Very funny. Never happening.”

Patrick beams up at him and David almost leans in again. Until he sees Twyla, standing there, happily watching them without a trace of self-consciousness.

“…I’m gonna go.”

He’s pretty sure Patrick can read his mind because he’s laughing as he waves goodbye.

 

In spite of Twyla’s predictions, Patrick’s smile stays all day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in Notting Hill rather than Schitt's Creek (but I wavered between setting it in Canada or London, and I'm living in Australia, so if everyone sounds tri-dialectal, that's why).
> 
> Also: this is going to be more Notting Hill-inspired than a scene-for-scene remake. (I can't improve on Noah Reid's "I'm just a boy, standing in front of a boy, asking him to sweep the floors" line, so why try?)


End file.
